


(the line between) power and fair play

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9217655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: When Jemma's in need of strength, Grant is more than happy to lend her his.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SafelyCapricious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MIR!!! You are my favorite Mir of all the Mirs and I love you lots and lots!! Here's to a great year! <3 <3 <4 <4

“Grant?”

Jemma winces at the tremor in her voice, which is sure to—yes, there it is, the pounding of Grant’s feet on the stairs as he races down them. She’s undoubtedly frightened him with how weak she sounds.

It’s not to be avoided, sadly; she _is_ weak. That last spell drained her completely, so much so that it’s astonishing she managed to make it all the way over to the intercom to summon Grant. As it is, she doesn’t think she’ll be standing for long; her legs are trembling, and it’s only with the support of the wall that she’s managed to stay up thus far.

Fortunately, Grant is nothing if not timely. The second her legs give out, he’s there to catch her.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, voice sharp but hands gentle as he checks her over. “How bad is it?”

Jemma closes her eyes against the spinning of the world, only to reopen them when she finds the darkness only makes it worse. But even that simple task is too much right now; it saps what little strength she had left, leaving none for speaking.

Her silence, she thinks, speaks for itself.

Grant’s mouth tightens. “Damn it, Jemma, we’ve talked about this.”

They have—often. Magical exhaustion is dangerous, the leading cause of death amongst witches in Jemma’s age bracket, and that she’s more powerful than most only makes it that much greater a threat. It’s foolish to push herself so far so often, and she knows she frightens Grant when she does.

But fear isn’t _all_ he’s feeling right now.

She curls into him as best she can, seeking the electric current that runs through his veins. His arousal is like a beacon, shining bright and calling to her—a source of strength just _waiting_ to be tapped.

“This is fucked up, you know that?” he asks. He’s already lifting her off her feet, turning to carry her to the bed she keeps in the corner of the basement for this exact purpose…but she doesn’t want to go there. Not right now.

It takes all of her concentration, but Jemma manages, somehow, to lift a hand and point, indicating the casting circle in the middle of the room. Spots dance in her vision as the effort leaves her shaking, but the displeasure on Grant’s face is easy to read.

“Seriously?” he asks. “You’re half dead and you want—”

He breaks off with a sharp shake of his head. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw; everything in his bearing screams his frustration with her and her lack of care.

But he can’t fool her. She can trace the rushing of his blood as his body responds to her request; he doesn’t _only_ hate how far she pushes herself. He loves it, too.

Or, no. That’s not quite true. What he loves—what turns him on—is the _reason_ she pushes herself.

Grant, bless him, needs to be needed.

When they first began this arrangement, Jemma worried he would feel used—that he would find it demeaning to serve as her battery, providing recharge whenever she needed it. It was a surprise to discover that instead, it’s very nearly a kink.

They’re both served well by the arrangement. It feeds his ego, she thinks, that a Sorceress of her status turns to _him_ for strength and protection, and that he takes such pleasure in serving her increases her own ability to draw from him. The love that’s blossomed between them in the past year is a nice bonus (more than nice, really), but it’s the rush Grant gets from seeing her gain strength at his hand (and other appendages) that makes him so effective a Knight.

And _having_ such an effective Knight has given Jemma a safety net. She trusts he’ll be able to restore her strength—if not fully, then at least to the point she’s no longer in danger—and thus is able to push herself further than she would ever have dared before meeting Grant.

Which leads them to here and now, and the spell she’d like to finish charging with his assistance. Having sex in the casting circle instead of the bed will decrease the efficacy of the orgasms he gives her—she’ll require that many more in order to regain her strength—but it will have a proportionate effect on her warding spell.

Bound in sex and love, their wards will be nigh unbreakable. Their new home will be safe and totally secure.

She doesn’t have the strength to express as much to him, however. All she can manage is a weak, “Please.”

“Fine.” Grant crosses the basement in a few quick strides to lay her carefully in the center of the circle. “But we’re gonna talk about this, Jemma. We’re gonna talk at _length_.”

Jemma hums an acknowledgement. Though she knows him to be completely serious, the impact of his words is lessened by the tendrils of _want_ sneaking out of him, wrapping her in his desire. Even such a little taste helps a bit, enough so that she’s able to move with him as he undresses her, lifting her hips that he might pull her jeans and knickers off.

And while he has no talent in sex magic—and therefore can’t see or feel the energy he’s passing to her—they’ve been doing this long enough for him to realize that _he’s_ the reason she’s able to move. His arousal surges, beginning to establish a feedback loop as her strength feeds his pleasure and his pleasure feeds her strength.

Still, he waits until she’s completely nude to ask, “You good to talk?”

“Only a little.” Much of the strength his pleasure gives her is, after all, immediately draining out of her and into the casting circle. “Why?”

“Think you can manage a safe word?”

A pleased shiver runs through her, so strong the runes around the edge of the circle shimmer briefly. To her eyes, at least; Grant has no mage sight and thus misses the effect. She nods for his benefit.

“Good,” he says, dropping to his knees between hers. He’s still fully dressed. “It gets to be too much, you say _purple_ , okay? Otherwise I’m gonna ignore what you say—although a few _sorry for recklessly risking my life for the sake of a stupid spell_ s wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Purple it is,” she agrees, ignoring the rest. She has no intention of apologizing.

Of course, intent means nothing. An eternity later, she’s apologizing for what must be the thousandth time.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m—please, Grant, _please_ , I need—I need—”

Her expressed remorse—and lacking coherence—doesn’t sway Grant in the least. His mouth is just shy of where she needs it, tongue tracing patterns everywhere _but_ her clit as his fingers play inside her. She’s so close, so so close, but he just _won’t_ push her over.

His free hand is anchored on her lower abdomen, firm enough to keep her from bucking her hips, and she hasn’t the strength yet to lift her arms. She can’t move with him, can’t touch herself to speed things along—can’t do anything but apologize and beg as his pleasure (he’s _enjoying_ this, the bastard, he _loves_ how helpless she is, depending on him for an orgasm he _won’t give_ ) and hers floods through and out of her.

Every time— _every time_ —she thinks she’s about to come, he backs off, and the casting circle drains the edge he’s given her. Without having had a single orgasm, she’s as oversensitive as if she’s come a dozen times, which only lets him torment her _more_.

“Please, Grant, please please please—”

His fingers twist and then curl upwards even as his mouth _finally_ finds her clit, and for a second she thinks _finally_ as her pleasure crests—

—but then he stops, slips his fingers out of her and sits back, and the casting circle activates once more.

“No,” she sobs, “no no no,” but it’s too late. Her pleasure drains away and she’s back to square one.

Grant grins. “Having fun, sweetheart?”

All she can manage is a helpless whine. The casting circle’s construction won’t allow it to drain her _completely_ , which means she’s been left enough energy not to be in danger any longer—but only just. She can’t move, can’t see to her own pleasure, can’t even muster the strength to demand satisfaction. She’s left with only her racing heart and her trembling limbs and the horrid, heartless amusement of the man who claims to love her.

“Great,” Grant says and, with a crack of his knuckles, starts the torture all over again.

The break, brief and awful as it was, has allowed her mind to clear a little. This time she manages to think a bit as Grant winds her up. What was it he said wouldn’t go amiss? She’s apologized, but only in general terms. Maybe—

She’s beyond overstimulated, which—paired with how well Grant knows her body—means it seems to take only seconds before she’s on the edge again. She grasps desperately for the thought she was having, clutching at half-remembered words.

“Sorry,” she gasps. “I’m sorry for—for—”

A sharp bite to her thigh jolts through her whole body, surprising a scream out of her. Gods and demons, she _needs_ to come, _needs_ the orgasm he’s dangling so far out of reach, needs it like she’s never needed _anything_ —

“—risking my life!” she half-sobs, half-screams. Grant’s sucking a bruise into her thigh, and the pleasure he gets from it—from marking her and (if she knows him at all) from the thought that he’s the only one who’ll ever see it—echoes within her. She can’t catch her breath, can’t keep track of what she’s saying. “Risking my life for—for—sorry, I’m sorry, _please_ Grant!”

His smile curves against her skin, and then he’s moving, fingers speeding up as his mouth covers her clit, sucking on it and finally finally _finally_ sending her screaming over the edge.

White hot pleasure—hers _and_ his—burns through her. Her back arches, her toes curl, and Grant doesn’t stop, only pauses long enough to shift, tongue sweeping into her as his fingers take over toying with her clit.

Her orgasm doesn’t fade, it _builds_ , driven higher by Grant’s enjoyment and her overstimulation both. She can’t control her body, doesn’t know whether she’s squirming into his touch or away from it; all she knows is pleasure and power and _Grant_.

She thinks she comes again—or maybe just _still_ —and it’s too much, it’s much too much, she doesn’t want it to stop but she doesn’t think she’ll _survive_ any more—

“Purple,” she sobs, and Grant stops at once.

Even as the circle activates, draining the energy of her orgasm(s? how many _was_ that?), the buzzing in her blood doesn’t fade. She’s trembling and out of breath, heart pounding hard in her throat, and it takes several long minutes for her to realize the reason she’s surrounded by darkness is that she’s closed her eyes.

She opens them to find Grant hovering worriedly above her. Her realization must have taken even longer than she thought; he’s obviously had time to clean up a bit. You’d never know she just came all over his face.

“You okay?” he asks, stroking her sweaty hair away from her face. “Do you need anything? Should I—?”

“You,” she manages, very hoarsely, “are _mean_.”

His smile is relieved, but not apologetic in the least. “Look who’s talking. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Jemma.”

“But how can I not?” She summons the strength to lift her arm and touch his cheek, solely for the way his hand comes up to hold hers against his skin. “You take such good care of me.”

“Well _somebody_ has to, since you won’t,” he says, plainly annoyed. Still, his eyes are soft. “Have you had enough?”

“No, but…” Reaching out with what little power the circle didn’t take, she feels at the edge of the wards. They’re rock solid, fit to hide them from the strongest scrying spell and repel two armies simultaneously. “The spell has. We can move to the bed.”

“Oh, _can_ we?” Grant asks dryly. “How nice for us.”

Yes, he’s definitely still annoyed. She imagines she’s going to be hearing about this incident for weeks. For the moment, though, she knows how to get him past it.

She bats her eyelashes at him. “Please, Grant, will you carry me to the bed and ravish me?”

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” he informs her, frowning heavily. It does nothing to hide his amusement. “But fine. Up you get.”

He scoops her up and carries her effortlessly to the bed. His easy strength sends a shiver of desire that’s purely hers through her—as does the flex of his muscles when he strips off his shirt after depositing her on the mattress.

Away from the drain of the circle, she feels a little stronger—strong enough to whistle at him as he shucks his jeans.

It gets her a grin…and a surge of arousal from him as his eyes trail over her, naked and waiting. The surge is almost heady; he denied himself an orgasm of his own in favor of tormenting her, and all that stockpiled desire is just _waiting_ to feed her power.

Once naked, Grant pauses and then perches on the side of the bed.

“Are we gonna need these?” he asks, indicating the shackles attached to the headboard.

“That depends,” she says. “Are you going to continue to be mean?”

“Very.”

The simple promise has her cunt clenching on nothing, which only draws her attention to the ache in it. His fingers and his mouth are skilled and lovely, but there’s no substitute for having _him_ inside of her. Even that fantastic, overpowering orgasm left her wanting.

He’s hard and, she can both see and feel, _very_ ready. That he intends to keep tormenting her…

They’re in for quite the experience.

“Then yes,” she says, “they’re probably for the best.”

The shackles aren’t for restraint—or, not solely. That they’ll keep her in place is only a side effect of their main use: preventing her from using magic.

Control of one’s magic is rooted in control of one’s self, and Jemma is never in less control of herself than when in the throes of passion. The magic dampening shackles became an important sex aid early on in their relationship, when it became clear that Grant favored teasing her and did _not_ enjoy her magic’s instinctive attempts to spur things along.

(Of course, very few men would enjoy having lightning cast down their backs to shock them into thrusting. And the less said about the time she made it snow, the better.)

In this case, however, the shackles are more for her sake than his. She’s too weak right now to be wasting magic—which is why the shackles are a better choice than, say, the bracelets they keep in their bedside drawer. The shackles are stronger, meant to keep the slightest drop from escaping her. She won’t even be able to dim the lights.

“You sure?” Grant checks. He always does.

“Yes,” she says, proffering a wrist.

He kisses it before locking the shackle around it, and repeats the gesture when he secures her other wrist. Grant, of all people, appreciates the trust she shows in him by letting him effectively seal her magic away—and to do so during sex, leaving her the most vulnerable she’s ever been—the most vulnerable she’ll ever _be_ …

“Love you,” he murmurs, bending to kiss her sweetly.

“And I you,” she says. She lets that sit for a moment, basking in the unexpected blessing she’s found in what began as a strictly sexual relationship, and then nudges him with her knee. “Now would you _please_ fuck me already?”

His answering grin is wicked and sets her heart to pounding.

“My pleasure.”

It is his pleasure. His desire—his _need_ —for her fills her just as surely as he does, currents of power sparking through her with his every thrust. He’s no sooner entered her than her strength begins to return; she’s able to wrap her legs around his waist, to arch up into him, to bite his shoulder as he slows down, prolonging things for both of them.

She’s even able to clench around him, tightening her muscles in waves that make his rhythm stutter.

“Fuck, Jem,” he pants.

“Yes,” she agrees breathlessly, “that’s the idea.”

She’s still marvelously overstimulated; it’s no time at all before she’s coming, bucking and screaming as Grant fucks her through it. Were her attention not utterly consumed by the way he continues to pound into her, she’d be impressed by his stamina; his own orgasm flutters at the edge of her senses, the building energy just waiting to buoy her, yet he manages to hold it off until her own fully fades.

And once it does…

He buries his shout in her shoulder as he comes, but there’s no hiding the rush _she_ gets from it. Fire and electricity flood her veins, power born anew from Grant’s pleasure and devotion. Her shackles hum, adjusting to the sudden surge, and the bedframe rattles in response.

And Grant grinds helplessly into her, driven to new heights by _her_ heights in the final moment of his orgasm.

Swept up by power and pleasure, she very nearly loses track of herself—the wards sing in her senses, strong and sure; the kitchen spells need tweaking; there are interesting security spells on a letter in the mailbox—but as always, Grant is there to keep her grounded.

Somewhat literally, in this case; he’s collapsed on top of her and his weight is pressing her into the mattress, though not unpleasantly.

“Darling?” she asks. “Are you all right?”

“Mm.” He nods against her shoulder. “Just gotta catch my breath. That was something.”

“It was,” she agrees, pleased. Torturing her beforehand did _wonders_ for them both; she was expecting to need at least four rounds to be back at full strength, and yet here she is already. “Full marks.”

He laughs against her skin and then slowly, carefully shifts off of her. “What about you? You okay?”

“Oh, I’m excellent.” Reminded of her restraints by her inability to pull him in for a kiss (which she’d dearly love to do), she rolls her shoulders. “If you wouldn’t mind—?”

Grant’s eyes flicker briefly to the shackles, then return to hers. Her mouth goes dry at his slow smile.

“You don’t think we’re _done_ , do you?” he asks.

“Aren’t we?”

“Oh no,” he says, fingers trailing over her stomach. “That one was for me. I’m just getting _started_ on you.”

Jemma has the thrilling feeling she’s in for a very long night.


End file.
